Infatuated
by B A Cucumber
Summary: 11 days in the life of John and Sherlock. 11 days that make Sherlock realize something important. Warning: this may be read as slash, though this is not the point. I do not own any of these characters. They still belong to A.C. Doyle and the BBC series.
1. Chapter 1

**Saturday 24**

He could not say how this had happened or what had brought this about; the only thought that crossed his mind when his mobile fell was _that's _it_ then_. And _I don't want to be alone_. Which was what everything boiled down to these days. Not being alone. He could not be sure about when this infatuation had started. He had always preferred his own company to that of other people. But then, _John wasn't other people_, was he?

He felt the pressure to the knuckles of his right hand and held tight to the edge, tried to remember why things had taken this turn, _because you're an idiot_, found he couldn't, only knew there were three stories below. Chances were he would break a limb in the fall. The pressure subsided and he looked up at the other man who smiled mischievously and replaced his foot more ferociously than before. On instinct, Sherlock withdrew his right hand and lost grip of the roof, falling.

_Where the hell's he gone now_? John shook his head in disbelief and put down the boxes. Sherlock had promised to help him pack. His being out was yet so typical. With a deep sigh, John grabbed one of the boxes and started folding it. There wasn't much to pack anyway. Most of the stuff in their flat belonged to Sherlock. _The man had a bloody library_! And armchairs, _damn comfortable ones, too_, John realized sadly. He had loved sitting by the fireplace, reading or typing into his computer while the genius mastermind got carried away in the craziest of detections. He must have-

_No_, John shook his head, he would not change his mind. Comfortable though this had been, he had to move on eventually. Sarah was good for him. Sharing with a woman would be a welcome change. _Boring_. John ignored the mocking voice inside his head. _Relationships weren't boring. They were lovely and comforting_. John picked up a stack of magazines when a psychedelic postcard fell to the ground. He fished for it and read the promising invitation to _the trip of a lifetime_. This was _so Sherlock_, he thought, noticing the doodles. 24. _Wasn't that today's date_? _Sherlock wasn't about to embark on this magical mystery tour, or was he_? Anger filled John's chest and for a split second did he wonder if he should just ignore the card. But then things had never been _that_ obvious with Sherlock, so this probably wasn't about magic mushrooms. _Oh god, yes, living with Sarah would make a change_. From Sherlock's mad universe…

When Sherlock came to, his head hurt and he vaguely remembered banging it on something solid before hitting the ground. How long had he been out? He tried to move and felt every inch of his body ache. Lifting his head did not do any good either. His vision was blurred, the street started spinning and he felt sick. Best keep his head down. _Assess the damage. Now, head hurts. Not good. Doesn't stop me from thinking though, so no brain damage. Troubled vision. Obvious. Possibly concussion. Immobility_. _Now that was a tricky one_. Spinal injuries wouldn't have allowed him to raise his head. Pain all over meant that his nervous system was intact. So pain was good. _Very good_. Nausea. Feeling sick. Concussion-related. His right hand hurt terribly, so did his left shoulder. _Fractured_, he guessed. His face felt warm, though not from within, so it was probably blood from his head injury warming the throbbing skin. How long would it take for him to bleed out? Long enough to chances being they would find him before he did. Couldn't assess possible internal bleeding. A sudden panic floated through him. Trying to level his breathing, he thought of texting John, knew he couldn't. _Find me_. _If_ the other knew where to look.

"I always know, don't I?" _Familiar voice_, concern mingled with mock. Sherlock opened his eyes again to strange patterns of colours and light. He could make out a smiling face. _Blond hair_. Staring down at him.

"John-" He heard his whispered voice crack.

"_You_ shut up," the doctor said smiling, yet in a worried tone.

"What-"

"-happened? I suppose you fell. Well, someone helped, obviously. Nasty head wound, severe concussion, possible fractures," John sounded clinical. Sherlock did not like that.

"I'm fine."

"I think you've seen better days."

"No, seriously-," Sherlock tried to sit up and immediately recognized his mistake. Grabbing John's sleeve, he fell back and wished to die. He closed his eyes against the light which he knew wasn't really there. It was late, long after dark, and still there seemed to be shades of white dancing before his eyes.

"Sherlock," the voice came from very far away, "Sherlock, open your eyes, can you hear me?" _John_.

He tried to look, wanted to see his friend, still he was unable to focus. He sensed John feeling his pulse. It was odd to know John's fingers on his throat. Carefully, the experienced doctor examined the wound, feeling observed by the concussed detective and knowing the latter was in no fit condition to observe. _See_, _maybe_. John avoided the glassy grey eyes staring up at him. He found that under normal circumstances, he would hold Sherlock's penetrating stare. _Not now_, though. There was nothing sharp in the helpless, _near-dead_, look. As if all light behind those eyes had been switched off.

John bent down to have a better look at Sherlock's eyes, when the younger man made an untoward move and met him half-way, showing him an enigmatic smile that would not quite reach his eyes. Only later would John realize that he knew then and there what the other one was going to do. And yet he did not back away but allowed Sherlock's lips to brush his own, ever so slightly and still what seemed eternally, before catching his friend once more, supporting him lying back down.

"_Don't – leave_," his words came as a mere whisper, yet there could be no doubt about the shakiness of Sherlock's voice. John gulped at seeing his dynamic friend so weak and vulnerable. _A fragile sociopath_.

"Please, _John_-"

Contemplating the younger man's face, John wondered what was going on. Sherlock looked asleep, but John had learned that his housemate's appearance could deceive.

"Okay, wha-, Sherlock. What was that for then?" No reaction. "Can you hear me? _Oh, you bloody well can_. You're concussed. We need to get you into hospital!" And with that, practical John took out his mobile and dialled.


	2. Chapter 2

**Monday 26**

When John saw him lying there, as pale as the sheets that covered his lean body, head heavily bandaged, right hand bandaged, too, cut, bruised, sleeping, he spontaneously wondered if he was taking the right step. Maybe he should have waited. Moving out certainly required some organization, but things could have been delayed. _Someone had to look after this guy after all_. Scolding himself for his thoughts, John remembered that Sherlock had been perfectly alright before he had come along. He had always resorted to Mrs Hudson or good old Stamford or Molly or Lestrade or…

"Mr - _Watson_?" A young nurse had walked into the room and John blinked up.

"Dr Watson, yes," he replied and she explained that he needed to collect Sherlock's personal belongings.

"Wouldn't mind so much, but he's got all those credit cards and stuff. With people walking in and out, would be better to make sure his things are safe."

"That's alright, I'll take them," John offered a kind expression and followed her to the staffroom where he found Sherlock's wallet on a tray, its contents next to it, credit cards, library cards, Lestrade's ID. John smiled as he put the cards back into the purse. There was no cash, of course, _Sherlock wouldn't bother_, when one item caught his attention.

"Wouldn't have taken him for a soldier," the nurse remarked and John absent-mindedly put the army tag into the wallet. _His_ tag. He wondered where Sherlock had got it, couldn't be sure when he had last laid eyes on it. _Made a mental note to inquire. Made a second one to best not._

"He isn't," he said to the nurse and put the wallet into his back pocket. The woman looked at him curiously and cocked her head. _Sweet_, he found.

"_I_ am," he said and smiled at her silent _Oh_.

"Oh, right, I'm - _sorry_. He's - _cute_, you know," she stammered incoherently which made him smile even more. People just always got this wrong. _Them_ wrong.

"I'll take care of this," he nodded and turned.

"No, I didn't _mean_-," she went on, "he _really_ _is_ cute."

"Yes, I suppose he is," John agreed and left.


	3. Chapter 3

**Thursday 29**

_Wrong_. This felt wrong, he found. Mrs Hudson had tidied the room. One quick intake of information had told him that. No dust on the mantelpiece. No fingerprints on the mirror. No letters on the floor, all neatly stacked on the side table. No cushions on the floor. Notebook on the table. _The table_! _Boring_! No smells from the kitchen. Curtains wide open, windows immaculately cleaned. Good Mrs Hudson. _Bless her_. _Dull_.

It would take him about five minutes to make a mess of it again. _And then_-

Sherlock walked over to the window and looked out. The sun was shining and there were people heading for Regent's Park with their picnic baskets and rugs. With a sneer, he drew the curtains. _Hateful_. He looked down at his hand, still bandaged, and stretched it. Immediately, a ferocious bolt of pain jolted up his arm. The three outer fingers broken, the carpus cracked, several nerves torn, it was no wonder. Sherlock cursed and blinked away tears. His head felt numb. _Normal in a severe concussion_. _And boring_. He heaved a sigh and strolled across the room. Finally, he fell down onto his couch and allowed himself to slump into the cushions, protectively cuddling a Union Jack one.

_Is _that_ my favourite cushion? _Sherlock heard John ask and shook his head in denial. _His_ cushion, maybe John's favourite, but _his_. _His_. He violently threw the thing into the kitchen. _He'd burn it_, he decided. Then he lay down covering his eyes with the good arm. John had coined that phrase. _As if there had ever been good or bad arms_. He knew, of course, what John had meant. Knew that the other man had always been appalled by the incisions and punctures. Sherlock had never understood. He liked them. He was rather proud of the accurate cuts he had given himself. And the wounds the needles had left, well, they had healed quite well, too_. So what the_-

Sherlock remembered the box. _Yes_, _good moment_, he reasoned. Returning from hospital in a cab, coming home to an empty flat definitely seemed a good enough reason. He rose and closed the short distance between the couch and the writing table. He pulled out the top drawer and rummaged within, soon finding what he was looking for. The rest was easy. Box holding the cord behind the couch, syringes in the kitchen…

"Just want to text-" John began and Sarah rolled her eyes. This Sherlock guy had always been a pest, turning up at dates, forever sending the strangest texts when they were at the cinema, calling at the oddest hours, ignoring her when she slept over, keeping 'experiments' in the fridge. The guy had freaked her out. _Handsome enough_, she mused, _but totally off his rocker_.

"-just checking on him, you know. I'm sorry," John started apologizing which unnerved her even more. _So what if they were friends_! _He was texting his weirdo friend_. _Ever-bloody-present Sherlock bleeding Holmes_.

His hand pressing the entry wound as hard as his shoulder would allow, Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. _Good_. Finally he could let go, leave all the misery behind, block out the pain eating him up and leaving him hollow. He knew this was _wrong_, knew that he would feel weak and ashamed of himself afterwards, dreaded John's reaction to -_this_-, and still he enjoyed the cold shiver running through him which made his mind horribly wide and lucid.

He found himself in a weird argument with himself when his mobile gave an unexpected purr. Sherlock chose to ignore it, to focus on reasoning, to not look if the text was from-

'How are you?'

A sudden flash of anger made him throw the phone into the corner of the room. How did John expect him to be? He _was_ a doctor after all. He had seen him. _Stupid question_. Sherlock covered his face in his hands and tried not to think. With a groan he got up to retrieve the phone.

'How are you?' stared at him. _Surely the doctor meant well_. Still, hadn't he told him to always sign texts? He'd probably forgotten, not having enough room in that small brain of his. Or maybe he hadn't listened because he didn't care. _He didn't care_. Sherlock pouted and gulped, then pressed '**_delete_**'. So much for his high. _Thank you, _John.

Like a lost child, Sherlock then scanned the room again. It didn't really seem any emptier without John's stuff, but then John had not brought so many things. He had gladly moved into the space Sherlock had provided, and it had been _alright_. A less perceptive observer might have said that nothing at all was missing from the room, but a sudden panic took hold of Sherlock when he realized that he was missing _John_.

'Home yet?' **_delete_**

A nasty voice inside his head told him to look at himself. It was mocking him, laughing at his pain, and telling him to face it. There was no one there for him. Here he was, the world's only consulting detective, the loner, the freak, whose first idea of home was having a fix. Who'd put up with him anyway? _Who cared_?

The sensation was new to him and heartbreakingly hurtful. _No one cared_. He was all alone.

His hand was shaking when he opened the next text 'Getting better?'. A bitter huff and **_delete_**.

John and Sarah had been to the shops and brought home two pots of paint and a giant plant. Laughing and tripping over the rug, they had manoeuvred the plant upstairs and into the study. _Living-room really_, John told himself, _not exactly comparing to Sherlock's bookshelves and boxes_. _Much less Bohemian_. Much less crazy. _Boring_. Sarah kept turning the pot figuring out the sunny side of the plant, and John took the paint through to the kitchen. _221B could have done with some fresh paint_, he thought. But then he could not imagine Sherlock being the periwinkle type. _Somehow the colour lacked _- drama. His throat went dry when John Watson somewhat realized that he missed his bachelor life.

Sherlock had spent half an hour staring at his battery of Petri dishes and test tubes. He had contemplated the microscope and rummaged through the contents of his fridge. For a while he had thought of taking some blood and mess around with it, but he couldn't be bothered. Drawing blood seemed a dull thing to do today.

'Hope you're well.' _How can I be well?_ **_delete_**

He had ended up on the couch (his arms around the afore-abused cushion) watching afternoon television and boring his mind out. For a while he tried keeping track, then he decided to distract himself counting round shapes in the wallpaper, then squares, then octagons. For a while he wondered if he was completely losing it. For another while he mulled over having lost it already. Finally he decided that it did not matter.

'Octagonizing. Should try. SH,' he texted John, knowing he wasn't making any sense.

John stepped down from the ladder and placed the brush on top of the pot of light blue. He read Sherlock's text with a bemused frown, then he shrugged it off and resumed painting.

Random people were arguing over their relationship and Sherlock groaned underneath his cushion. _Why couldn't people just _think? It was too obvious that the girl had slept with the two guys and had then told each they were her daughter's father, making both pay for the child. It was all too obvious that neither was the father. Sherlock growled inwardly and wished for company to share snide comments with or to merely verbally abuse. _John_. _Argh_.

'Settling in.' **_delete_**

'Anything exciting in the fridge?' _No_. _**delete**_

'Ours' holding milk for a change.' _Ours_. _**delete** Ours_!

'Where ARE you?' _Where would I be?_ **_delete_**

'Would I find you at 221B?' _No_. _**delete**_

'Come and see us sometime.' _Us_. _**delete **Us. Us_.

Sherlock had never thought such little words could hurt so much. He knew he was angry, but what he really feared was the second emotion which had crept into the first: regret.

'You will come sometime, will you?' _Won't you_. _**delete**_

Sherlock jumped up from the couch, cursing the sharp pang in his head and shuffling to the window. The street was dimly-lit and rather empty. A drizzling rain had started coating the street and the sidewalks as well as the parking cars. _Dull_.

The lanky man heaved a sigh and rested his head against the window pane. He had to get out of London. _But where to_?

John and Sarah had painted the ceiling in the hall and then moved into the living-room. Snugly ensconced they had enjoyed some wine and crisps and had shared university anecdotes. The topic of the Great Detective had not once been brought up, and Sarah was beginning to feel this could work. John hoped it would but wasn't quite sure.

"Mrs Hudson. Don't worry. I'm perfectly safe and sound. I just needed to go places, find some answers. May be gone for a while. SH" - folded and slipped under Mrs Hudson's door. Sherlock hastily threw some clothes into a small suitcase and shrugged on his coat. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror and stopped to peel off the large white patch which covered the stitches. The skin underneath was soft and swollen and very discoloured. Picking at the stitches, Sherlock managed to undo enough of the coarse material to tear it from the wound. Without the black thread, things did not look too scary. Ruffling his hair, he did his best to hide the scar behind unruly curls. The bandaged hand made him look stupid enough, still he wasn't fool enough to rip the bandages off. He idly hid the broken hand inside his pocket. Pulling the suitcase was painful but necessary; the taxi was waiting just outside anyway.

He did not look back, just got into the cab and gave directions, "Victoria".


	4. Chapter 4

**Saturday 31**

"What do you mean, gone?" John asked and Mrs Hudson raised her shoulders, "Well, you know what he is like. Came here from hospital, had a lie-in and then off he took. Left a note though."

John was puzzled. _This was not like Sherlock at all_. He was not one for leaving notes, "May I see it?" _Of course, it was held in Sherlock's unique way, clipped and precise and not giving any useful information_. John growled and handed the letter back. Where could he possibly have gone?

"I'd say," Mrs Hudson interrupted John's thoughts, "he did look quite worn, poor dear. He would have wanted some peace and quiet." _Something like_-

-o-

_Brighton_. Sherlock remembered it from tedious school trips with pompous, ignorant teachers. _Hateful place. Cheap, vulgar, and tawdry_. Absolutely packed with tourists and language students. Noisy, dirty, disturbingly anachronistic and just to his taste.

He got off the train and made his way into the centre where he stopped at a coffee shop opposite the Pavilion. He shrugged his coat off and checked his mails and texts.

Mycroft. **_delete_**

DI Lestrade. Too long to be important. **_delete_**

John. 'Where ARE you?' _Don't shout at me_! _**delete**_

Though he had trained himself in being ambidextrous, typing with his left hand was slower than expected. He kept hitting the wrong keys and quietly cursed his injuries when a female voice interrupted his outburst, "Sorry. I happened to overhear. Do you need a hand?"

Sherlock looked up to find a young woman smiling at him. _Early thirties. Red hair. Dyed. No nonsense haircut. Elegant necklace, though. Not a tourist. Not English either. Very faint German accent. Belgian top, French trousers. French shoes, too. Identity issues. Friendly, yet not flirty. Helping, not harassing. Short but clean fingernails, no rings. Right-handed. Ink on thumb and index finger. She used a Parker pen, going by the shape of the ink marks. Nice hands. Bit dry. Used to repetitive rinsing and washing with cheap liquid soap. No compulsory washing, though. White residue suggested chalk. Teacher. Not primary school. Not university either. Jacket said Sixth Form. Jeans probably meant state school. Now subject._ One quick glance at her table confirmed his idea. _Much-used edition of_ Faust. _Hardly pleasure reading_. _German - very likely. Lots of foreign language assistants these days_.

"Gern, danke," he said and added, "Ihr naht euch wieder, schwankende Gestalten?"

"I'm sorry, have we met?" She stared back at her table and took a step back.

"Allwissend bin ich nicht, doch viel ist mir bewusst," Sherlock smiled.

"You _do_ know your _Faust_," the woman smiled and sat down at Sherlock's table, "I'm impressed".

"Sherlock, pleased to meet you. You were offering-" he held out his phone to her and she took it, smile broadening at the spelling mistakes.

"What are you looking for?"

"Accomodation. Hotel or guest house. Four or five nights. City centre. Something classy, not too upmarket though. No pets." She nodded and went onto _TripCoach_.

"Single bedroom?"

"Definitely."

"There you go. Take your pick," she handed the phone back.

Sherlock had a look at the given hits. Guest house no. 5 out of 104 seemed nice but had poster beds. _Couldn't stand them_. The next had a pleasant name, and warm colours. _Yes, that was it_. He hit the given phone number and put the phone to his ear.


	5. Chapter 5

**Tuesday 20**

He could not say how this had happened or what had brought this about; the only thought that crossed his mind when the stronger man's grip tightened around his arms was _at least I'm not alone_. And _I wouldn't want to be alone_. Which was what most things boiled down to these days. Not being alone. He could not be sure about when this infatuation had started. He had always preferred his own company to that of other people. But then, _John wasn't other people_, was he? After all, he was here with him.

Sherlock felt the stranger's fingers press into his skin, leaving marks even through his shirt. John was facing him in calculating tension, watching him. To not disappoint his flatmate Sherlock continued keeping himself overly erect and trying to arrogantly look down on his attacker. Which wasn't too easy, given the other was three inches taller and standing behind him. Still he found himself quite impressive in comparison. _Fighting was useless_. There were at least three more men in the room whose actions had to be taken into consideration. One, for instance, was pointing a gun at John's head.

"I take it you know what's going to happen now?" a voice from the corner of the room said, and Sherlock sneered. He had heard that voice before.

"Let me guess. You're going to kill us," the detective answered in a calm tone staring at the smallish opponent in the expensive suit whose face was wearing a contorted smile and slowly moved from side to side.

"That would be neat, wouldn't it?" Moriarty had walked up to Sherlock and gave him a cold glare, "You try and _blow me_ up. I _come_ after you. What a weak analogy. _Boring_!" Moriarty fingered Sherlock's top buttons, undoing three of them and baring immaculately white flesh, "You _are_ hot, sexy! Such a shame you're not available."

He turned to John and outstared him. John cast Sherlock an inquiring glance. _What was going on_?

"Oh, I'm not heartbroken over the two of you being - _close_," the stylish criminal continued and sighed, "I'll have my share eventually, won't I?"

"Don't waste your breath," Sherlock remarked and Moriarty rested a hand on John's shoulder bending in to whisper, "You'll be enjoying this, John, go on," and he pushed John into Sherlock's direction, "Why don't you get on your knees, John? Would be more comfortable."

John stumbled inelegantly but stopped in front of his friend and watched him carefully. As usual, Sherlock seemed miles away.

"You're not-" John began not sure whether to focus on Sherlock or Moriarty.

"_Serious_? Oh, _I am_, see, I'll even lend a _hand_," shoving past John, Moriarty undid Sherlock's belt and jeans at which the slender young man stirred, ineffectively against his captivator though. Moriarty eased the black trousers down bony hips and slid his hand inside Sherlock's underpants, "_Oh_! Not so cock-sure now, are we?" Moriarty hissed and removed the hand, putting it on John's back, "Now, don't like being kept waiting. _On_ you go, John, you know what I'm talking about."

"What if-"

"-you refuse? You wouldn't. Want to stain Mrs Hudson's carpet with bits of brain."

"You won't get away with this," John weakly reasoned.

"And who would stop me?" At a quick nod, one of the intruders had joined Sherlock's captivator and put a gun to the detective's neck. John realized that there was still another one pointed at himself, so he slowly got to his knees.

"_John_-" He did not recognize the croaking voice as Sherlock's at first, "you don't have to do this." He did not realize he had spoken. The words had just come. John did not have to do this. He should not have to do - _this_. Sherlock had always wondered what genuine embarrassment felt like. He had been humiliated before, had been badly abused, mostly verbally, but he had never felt like this. John was his friend. _His only friend_. No boyfriend or lover, much more than that. He did not want John to see him naked. He did not want him to _do_ these things. He did not want John to touch him. _Not here. Not with strangers watching_.

"You have a choice. It's _you_. _Or him_," Moriarty declared and John snorted. He couldn't expect Sherlock to - blow him. _God, this was mad_. Madder than anything they had been through. This man didn't _do_ sex. Having him on his hands and knees in front of John simply wouldn't fit. God, the image would stay with him forever. He fumbled about the tall man's trousers, exposing as little as he could of his friend. _Don't look_. He forced himself not to look up. If he had, he would have seen the set jaw line blush.

"You're not very good at this, Sherlock," Moriarty cut in, "the blood's not supposed to rush to your _face_!" He giggled to himself and told John to _get to work_. How was he supposed to tell Sarah? _What_ was he supposed to tell Sarah? Was he supposed to tell Sarah? _Oh, by the way, gave Sherlock a blow-job today_. _She wouldn't like it_. _Good deduction_. _Sherlock seemed to be rubbing off. Shouldn't he be rubbing him off_?

Carefully John unwrapped Sherlock and eventually looked up when he felt the detective slacken as if he were about to faint. His face had turned deep red, his eyes were closed and he let out a strangled moan.

"_Interesting_!" Moriarty chuckled and leaned into Sherlock, "So you _are_ a clean shaver."

He wanted to die.

_Better get this off quickly_, John decided and did what he was expected to do.

This wasn't happening, Sherlock told himself. _Not now_, _not ever_. _Couldn't. Shouldn't_. If he could only use his arms, he would pull John up and push him away. How was he ever to-

_Oh_. He found the grip on his arms lessen and shook himself free. In an instant, he had pushed John off, too, and turned to Moriarty. Stupid he had to pull up his trousers at the same time.

"Just leaving," Moriarty grinned and held up his hands, "seen enough for now. Might want to see more, though." And the intruders left.

Sherlock sank onto the couch trying to think but found himself strangely overpowered by emotion. He shot John a dark stare but found the blond innocently staring back at him.

_What now_? Sherlock thought through the options quicker than John who decided to be blunt and both spoke at once.

"That was - _good_. Thank you."

"That was the weirdest thing I've ever _not_ done."

Both smiled briefly, then John added, "Did you just say _thanks_?" Sherlock confirmed and ran his hands through his hair, "I couldn't have - I didn't get it at first." And when John frowned, "When he said _get on your knees_."

"Well, that was obvious then, wasn't it?"

"To me it wasn't," Sherlock admitted and scratched his neck. John got off the floor and joined his friend on the couch.

"_What_? That's what it means," Sherlock huffed, "No one's ever - _done that_." To me. "_With me_."

"Nothing wrong with that," John said and Sherlock shot him a disdainful look, "You - made sure you were a - private man. That's - _fine_."

"Is it?"

John nodded.

"You're not - disgusted." Faint worry.

"Why should I be? I've seen worse, you know."

"Have you." Envy? Jealousy?

"Not _guys_, _I mean_. I've _seen_ guys that were less handsome than you, not - in that particular context - though." He stopped shaking his head and Sherlock curiously observed John was shivering. He had been collected before. _Probably the shock kicking in_.

"_Handsome_?" John expected the diva in his flatmate to rebel against the word. To point out the understatement. The over-simplification.

"Yes, that's not the point though, is it?"

"But you think I'm handsome."

John shrugged and wanted to elaborate. _Well-kempt_ wasn't really accurate. Moreover did he wish to avoid any reference to - hair. "As in attractive, pleasant, cute. Handsome, _yes_." He must _know_ that, John thought. _Fishing for compliments_. Sherlock looked at him curiously, sad rather than suspiciously. Then he jumped up and walked into the kitchen.

"Where're you going?"

"Bed!"

John shook his head and sighed, when Sherlock changed his mind and turned back, "No one ever called me cute. _Perfect_, yes. _Exceptional_ and _extraordinarily flawless_. Never handsome," each adjective delivered so whip-like carried bitter disappointment. Surely _somebody_ must have shown Sherlock _some_ respect. _Some tenderness_.

"You're really kind with me," he sadly admitted and then walked down the hall.


End file.
